Lines West, October 28, 2016

A White Steed Unrestrained

Ever since that summer

I’ve shunned the white face,

preferred a warm eye, russet

coat, the black mane

of the bay.  Something wild

in a blue eye makes me wary

of what’s inside, what hides

beneath the withers, pulses

through the heart, a spirited

temper untamed by rein

or bit.  To canter is a gift

when it’s controlled, a

flirtation with death

as he heads for the tree with

low-hung branches.  Beware

of horses that gleam in the

moonlight.  Beware of white

men in high places toying

with the precipice, one step

shy of tumbling off the cliff.

    — Melinda Rice


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